


That Doesn't Make You Jesus

by Yikes (CoralFlower)



Category: Lackadaisy
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, BAd stuff happens but its NOT excused or romanticised, Badass Omegas, Bootlegging, Death, Gang Related activities, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Murder, NOT a kink fic, POV Mordecai, POV Second Person, Prohibition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-06-03 21:05:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6626272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoralFlower/pseuds/Yikes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes you a while to start breathing again after the knife slices off the tip of your ear and pain almost makes you forget you can't flinch. You want to. Oh, you want to. </p><p>"If ya flinch, ya die, got it?" You'd said yes. You need this position, low as it is; an omega on the streets alone is one thing, while an omega on the streets with a gang is quite another. </p><p>You hold your back straight and don't let your ears twitch as you wait for the whizzing of the knives to stop. They won't hit you, they only got your ear because that's their thing, they're all missing the tips of their left ears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It takes you a while to start breathing again after the knife slices off the tip of your ear and pain almost makes you forget you can't flinch. You want to. Oh, you want to. 

"If ya flinch, ya die, got it?" You'd said yes. You need this position, low as it is; an omega on the streets alone is one thing, while an omega on the streets with a gang is quite another. 

You hold your back straight and don't let your ears twitch as you wait for the whizzing of the knives to stop. They won't hit you, they only got your ear because that's their thing, they're all missing the tips of their left ears.

You stare at the leader as you wait, all the while suppressing shudders at the blood running from your ear, it's going to dirty your shirt. Finally they stop, and you don't let your relief show on your face. You hold out a hand towards Risker, the leader, and say,  
"Might I borrow a blade?" He smirks at you, voice dipping low like he thinks he's all that.  
"Sure." The knife flips towards you in the air, and you see that the blade will be facing you when it reaches you, but really, it's such a simple matter to just catch it that you don't even think you'll get angry.

You walk over to a puddle and lean over it, carefully memorising the shape of the newly missing piece of your ear, and carve a piece from the other one to match. You hand the knife back to Risker, who's smiling his typical alpha male smile, blade first. He takes hold of the blade and tosses it up in the air, catching it by the handle and then grinning at you like he expects you to be impressed.

You aren't yet old enough to be senile, and you aren't so young as to be naive, so you've noticed the lack of omegas in their gang. You're aware they plan to take advantage of you the next time you go into heat. You simply don't plan on ever going into heat.

\-----

The headquarters is hidden away in an abandoned building, but it isn't so grungy that they haven't got a bathtub. Good. 

You lock the bathroom door and run three inches of cold water into the tub. It seems to be clean, the water, which is a relief. This is only the third time you've ever attempted to head off a heat with limited time, but you're confident you can do it. You undress and climb in, getting situated with practised ease in a cross-legged position, and let yourself slip into a state of full concentration, thinking away your hormones with a technique you're pretty sure is unique to you.

Thirty minutes later, you climb out of the bathtub and dry off. Nobody bothered you, which means they've probably planned a prank of some sort on you. As long as it's no threat to your symmetry or homeostasis, you'll find a way to deal with it.

\-----

Several cycles and a few hundred gang-related crimes later, you turn the knob on the tub and no water comes out. Shit. They must have caught on to how you were doing it, and it isn't as though any of them bathe anyway. You have to get out of here, and quickly, because you put it off a few hours this time. 

You jump out the window, but you put your clothes on first, because leaving them would be absurdly counterproductive. As soon as you hit the ground, you take off running, planning wildly in your head; you can feel the hormones starting to cloud your brain, and you really need to find someplace to pin yourself down that's out of the way of everyone. Except that this is a city, and places like that don't exist here. God, this is scary, this is really scary, you need help, but anyplace respectable will turn you out, and the kind of place that would let you stay is the kind of place that you're afraid of.

Someone grabs your elbow, turns you around. Thick, ridiculous eyebrows, enourmous grin, notch in one ear, so obviously an alpha that you immediately hiss, and he has the audacity to roll his eyes. He grabs you by the scruff of your neck, an attack you really should have been prepared for, and you go limp, instinct so strong that you can't even think it away. Fuck. Shit shit shit fuck shit. Being scruffed has really made it hard to think, and you know it's supposed to be that way, but you hate it, you hate how you can't even think.

He drags you into a building, and you can't fight or move or even pay attention to your surroundings because of his paw on the back of your neck and his grip so tight it might be nicer if you just didn't fight it, and then he tosses you into a small room, slams the door shut, and says,   
"I'll get you some food. You can come out in three days when it's over."

You ask if he has a bathtub. You end up using his shampoo and he hands you a card with the name and address of a little cafe on it. And maybe you don't really mind if he seems to like the way you smell a little bit too much, because if he wanted to hurt you, he would have done it already.


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recommend rereading 'sophistry,' the minicomic about waffles and pancakes, before venturing into this chapter.

The next day, when you walk into the Little Daisy cafe and wince at the dinging of the bell (it’s just a semitone above an A flat, ugh), the alpha male from before looks up from a plateful of pancakes (it’s lunchtime, what the heck) and grins at you.  
“See, I told you he’d come.” You bristle at the implication that he knows you well enough to predict your actions, goddamn alphas and their goddamn obnoxious presumption, and a black-haired greyish brown beta female rolls her eyes.  
“I never contradicted you, Rocky.” So his name is Rocky. She waves a paw at you, tucks a strand of hair out of her face, and says, “I’m Ivy, Ivy Pepper.” You kind of feel like bolting, which isn’t like you, seeing as these people are the only friendly faces you’ve seen in a while and you’ll likely starve or get taken advantage of without some kind of help-- oh, that would be why Rocky was so sure you’d come here, it wasn’t obnoxious confidence resulting from alpha privilege, but simple logic, which is something you can certainly understand and support, so you force your shoulders to relax, and nod minutely.  
“The name’s Heller. Mordecai Heller.” Rocky pushes the chair across from him out from under the table with his feet, and asks, through a mouthful of pancakes, if you want to sit down. You hesitate, and then acquiesce, setting your few belongings, which you retrieved last night in a stealth mission from your old HQ, on the corner of the table, which is the only section of its surface not coated in syrup. “Why pancakes?”

He quirks an eyebrow and says something through a mouthful of them that just sounds like gibberish, so you just look at him deadpan and wait for him to repeat himself in an intelligible manner. He swallows, takes a swig from a glass of something that you’re pretty sure is water, and says,  
“Because pancakes!” You raise your eyebrows, supremely skeptical.   
“What a charming tautology. Did you come up with it yourself?” He laughs out loud, and you flinch, which would have been embarrassing if he had actually noticed.  
“That sounds like something I’d say myself!” You heave a sigh, and almost put an elbow on the table to facilitate easier face-to-palm interactions, but at the last minute you remember how sticky it is. Crisis averted, if only by a tiny margin.  
“So why did you give me that card?” He shrugs, stuffing a forkful of syrup-soaked pancake into his mouth in a way that makes you die a little inside.  
“You looked like you could use some help” is what you guess it’d sound like he said if he had any concept whatsoever of table manners. You can feel your ears twitching sort of annoyed-like as you process that statement, and you frown to say,  
“What is that supposed to mean?” He points, very suddenly reaching across the table, at something behind you. After you get over your startledness, you twist around in your seat to see what the hell it is.

It’s a mirror, and you look like hell. You watch your whiskers twitch minutely, and then, barely resisting the urge to go closer to the mirror and fi _x everything_ , turn back around to say, in a purposefully overly dignified manner that you think would probably be considered comical due to the contrast with your current appearance,  
“Quality reflective surfaces are surprisingly difficult to come by on the streets.” It works, because he sort of giggle-snorts at you, and then you have to look away because how is he eating in such a way that there’s even a plausible situation in which syrup comes out his noise?

You have to admit that, as annoying and condescending as it feels that he took one look at you and decided you needed help, he’s right anyway. You sigh, and pull your sketchbook off the corner of the table. You only have a few pages left, and that’s after you’ve drawn around everything already in the book, including the inside front cover.

Art wasn’t your first choice, but they wouldn’t let omegas take Calculus at your high school, and you needed an additional elective anyway. Goddamn fucking biased system; you learned calculus anyway, from the library in your free time, and in three months less than the class would have taken, too. You snuck into the final exam at the end of the year and set the curve. Proudest moment of your life, right there (so far, that is). Anyway, both art and calculus ended up sticking, partially because of how the ceramics unit in art could be connected to the volume part of calculus, partially because the rectangular approximation methods look nice in abstract doodles.

“What’s that? A journal?” You shrug absentmindedly.  
“Of sorts.”  
“Can I see?” You hesitate, there, because it’s all pretty messily crammed in, haphazard sketches wherever you can fit them, because this is how you calm down after difficult situations. You riffle through the pages, trying with little success to find one that isn’t a literal bullshit collage. You decide to just start a new one, because you can go back and fill up the few empty spots on your old page later. You’ll just have to keep it orderly while he’s watching you, and then you can do whatever. You flip to the first blank page, tap the corner of the book three times with a fingertip, and flip the rest of the pages around to rest underneath the one you’ll be sketching on. You meticulously sketch out a triangle; scalene, not equilateral, because if you attempt an equilateral triangle you will never stop tweaking the angles.

You begin a fractal, starting by outlining the largest circle that can fit inside your triangle, then drawing the largest circle that can fit in the space left, then the largest one that can fit in the space left by that one, and so on. After about twenty minutes of him watching you over your shoulder, you pronounce it finished, and glance at his face to measure his reaction. His brow is furrowed, and he’s looking at it like he doesn’t quite get what’s going on here. He reaches out like he’s going to touch it, and you’re immediately on guard, because if he smudges your lead you will end him, and to hell with the consequences.

Instead, he just points a claw at one of the larger circles, the fourth one you drew, and says,  
“This one’s kinda lopsided.” Your jaw drops for a moment before you get a hold of yourself and pull your face into a more composed arrangement.  
“How long ago did you notice that?” He shrugs.  
“Right when you drew it, about.” That’s obnoxious. He should have told you then.  
“Why didn’t you tell me? Now to fix it I have to redo every other circle related to this area.” Another shrug. You’re about to chew him out.  
“I didn’t want to interrupt, and... I thought it might bother you, is why.” You heave a sigh.  
“Nevermind. It doesn’t matter.” You date the fractal, 4/24/24, and close your sketchbook, marveling at how sudden that mood change was.  
“Hey! It’s lunchtime, do you want food?” Another abrupt shift in the mood. You wonder vaguely what’s up with that.  
“I don’t have money.”  
“That’s okay! We have pancakes!” Cue enthusiastic, almost comical gesturing towards his half-devoured plate of pancakes. You typically don’t like pancakes, but it’s a free meal, and you aren’t exactly in a position where you can decline free meals. You hate not having enough of things. It makes you feel helpless, like you aren’t capable of being independent.  
“I’ll pay you back, then, as soon as I have the means to do so.” He shrugs, a third time; shrugging seems to be one of his main modes of communication.  
“If it makes you feel better. Oh, and I’ll talk to Mitzi about something you can maybe do here! We’ve actually been looking everywhere for a dark-furred, bespectacled, sesquipedalian person to help out with things.” You’re confused for a moment, and then he winks, which is about when you realise that last part was utter bullshit and he’s just joking. You roll your eyes, and sigh again. You get the feeling that if you start working here, you’ll be sighing a lot more frequently than usual. You put your elbow on the table to make face-to-palm interactions less awkward, and remember a second late that the entire surface of the table is sticky. Fuck. You gently lower your face into your hand for a moment, and then set about cleaning yourself up, and while you’re at it, you think you’ll wipe the table off, too.


	3. 3

You go back there the next day. He gives you food (pancakes again), and you meet Mitzi, an alpha, and the owner of the Little Daisy. She notes the missing tips of your ears, and you tell her simply that it was related to a previous occupation, and that they fired you for being ‘unrapeable.’ You’re being serious, but she laughs. Immediately after she finishes giggling, she levels a rather serious look at you and says,  
“How?” You infer she is asking about how you did it. Rocky doesn’t speak up to explain anything (which you have to say is rather decent of him, not making that decision himself), so you simply push your glasses up on your nose (you’re probably very lucky they haven’t gotten broken yet) and say,  
“Trade secret, I’m afraid.” You don’t want her sabotaging you, is why you’re keeping it secret. She shrugs (possibly she spends a lot of time around Rocky), the look on her face suggesting that she didn’t really expect you to tell her anything.  
“So your previous occupation involved, ah... some violence, I’d guess.” You look at her, bewildered and annoyed, for a moment, wondering about her past with your previous employers, and why she’s bothering to bring this up. You don’t nod, or give any indication of an answer. “I’m asking in case you enjoyed that job, and want another one like it.” You delicately shrug your shoulders, and say,  
“It was a job. A means of existence, if not at a very high standard.” She nods, eyes piercing in a way that makes you feel altogether as though you’ve revealed too much, and says,  
“We’ll have to see if Viktor likes you. Rocky, I have to go out, so you’ll have to--”  
“What?! I mean, uh. Nevermind. Good call, having me there, so he’ll channel his uh, general dissatisfaction with the world on me instead of Mordecai. I guess.” You raise an eyebrow at him, wondering what’s up with this Viktor guy, if that was scripted and this is really a hazing ritual of some sort.  
“Who is Viktor?”  
“Oh, he’ll be in the garage, probably.” He gallivants, and you follow him, through the doors, down a little alley and into a garage. Viktor is probably the large looking (from what you can see of him), maybe-alpha-maybe-beta cat that’s currently most of the way underneath a car. “Hey, Viktor!” Viktor grunts, and scoots out from underneath the car, standing up to a full height of very-tall-wow-run-away. Actually, on further examination, he isn’t _that_ tall, he’s just big, in a could-definitely-cause-you-grievous-harm way. You swallow, and calm yourself down by remembering the knives zipping at you from all sides. This threat is of a different kind. He’s not a stealthy type. You doubt he’s slow, but you can tell just by how he moves that any action he makes without verbal warning will have the sort of warning that comes from being very big; there’ll be enough warning for you to get the fuck out. You can’t predict what he does, but you will know before it happens no matter what. His intimidating size reminds you to assess the area for other potential threats, and you sniff the air.

You smell some gasoline, some dust, and a lot of alpha, but only one scent that isn’t familiar. You’re going to assume it’s Viktor. If there’s anyone else in here, they’d have to smell the same as him, and that is so unlikely that you think you’ll ignore it.  
“Who’s this?” Rocky looks at you expectantly, and you breathe in deeply but quietly before saying,  
“Mordecai Heller.” Viktor sighs brusquely, and you’re finally calmed down enough to note he’s got an eyepatch.  
“Vhy?”  
“Something about a job.” He snorts, looking you up and down, and you start glaring just because it’s a response you’ve gotten so many times, and you’re tired of it. “Would you appreciate a demonstration? Perhaps of how quickly I can castrate you with several hairpins and my left hand?” He chuckles, and you bristle, assuming at first that he’s just laughing at you.  
“Vhat? How do I know you are not, ah... left-hand, in the first place? You have to do tvice, vith each hand, and compare. I volunteer Rocky for first trial.” Rocky jumps in then, moving his arms wildly in a sort of cutting-off motion that looks extremely foolish.  
“No, no, let’s think of something else that’s not a terribly awful idea thanks.”  
“Vhy? I think this vork best.”  
“Or I could simply throw a knife at something and _not_ do any of that.” Rocky nods rapidly.  
“Yeah, I like that idea. Viktor, gimme a knife.” You reach into your bag and pull out your old standard issue gang knife, used mainly so far for hazings and the like.  
“No need. What’s the target?”  
“This vun’s stomach. Right in the gut.” He indicates Rocky by twitching an ear at him.  
“NO! Not my fucking stomach, throw it at... at that box over there!”  
“Any specific place on the box, or just the box in general?”  
“The box is hard enough on own for you,” Viktor says. What’s his deal? You roll your eyes, and just throw it, in the way you’ve practiced over and over and over... For a target that large, you don’t really need to line anything up.

It sticks, perfectly. Viktor raises an eyebrow.  
“Ah. So is not prank. After the last vun I thought...” Rocky heaves a sigh.  
“Ugh, you never let anything go, do you?”  
“That vas three days ago.” Rocky shrugs, suddenly avoiding eye contact and muttering.  
“So I have a job,” you say? No one answers you.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i had a sort of lead in to this chapter, but it works better without the lead in. however, there was important exposition info in the lead in, so here is the specific sentence that contained the important info:
> 
> You also learn of the existence of some sort of drama that went on between Mitzi and her business partner, Atlas May, another alpha. You learn nothing about the nature of said drama, but you do know that it exists.
> 
> ALSO: the italicised lines are flashback.

You go in. May 22nd. The bell bothers you more than usual. It's a Thursday.

The world seems to be shaking and warping in front of your eyes. You take your glasses off to clean them on your shirt. It only smudges the dirt around, but it makes you feel more stable. _Panic. Climbing about three feet up the alley wall before the rain-soaked surface stopped holding you and you fell._ Out of the corner of your eye you notice movement, and _you couldn't get away from her she had too tight a grip_.

You're sitting on a stool there. Someone is close to you. _Too close. You didn't like this. You wanted away but she was too strong, all of them are too strong you hate it you always have._ Rocky puts his _paw on your neck you hate her you hate people touching your neck you hate instinct it's raining_.

"Shh." Soft circles traced on your back, shivering. You're shivering. Rocky is careful. He has a paw over his nose and mouth. He is very worried, that is something you can tell for sure.

It is warm and dry and dark outside. You feel shaky and shivery. You do not exactly know what is happening. You would feel safer if you had a gun.

There are interesting patterns reflected in the window. You stare at them. Someone is saying _how you should stop fighting, how it isn’t worth trying, how it’s your own fault if you get bruised because_ he cares about you, and he can  
“...can see that you’re hurt. Can you tell me what happened?” He breathes in, and coughs. His hand on your back wavers. You look at him. You keep looking through him.

He shakes again, all over, and backs up. You curl _your toes. You hiss at her and kick her in the shin for that, then attempt to abscond by climbing three feet_ up in a ball, only just barely balancing on the stool. Your glasses are filthy. You take them off to clean them and notice the dried droplets of muddy water shaking violently around, and then there’s a clatter from downwards and the glasses are gone.

Rocky’s eyes flick downwards, and in that moment there’s something familiar in his posture, something that screams at you to run away, get out get out ge _t out out out out you want out and away from this, away from her, away from what she’s making you endure._

You scramble backwards, and fall off of the stool. Your head hits something, and then the wavering of your sight is worse than before. There might be something sticky happening to your fur. Rocky doesn’t come over. You can barely hear, over the roaring in your ears, some heavy breathing, a telephone being hung up, _the rain hitting your glasses and the sky slowly getting lighter through them, and the knowledge that it’s over it’s finally over you can just sleep and sleep and sleep._

__

There’s a dark wooden bookshelf full of what appears to be books. You don’t remember much of anything until you try to sit up and the dizziness reminds you just by being so familiar.

Rocky closes a book and sits up straighter. You look at him, confused, helpless, hoping he’ll tell you what’s happened so you don’t have to figure it out yourself.  
“Someone hurt you.” It takes you a few seconds to fully process his tone. He’s angry, glaring at the floor, claws digging into the arms of his chair. “The most annoying thing is I can’t figure out how it happened.” He suddenly relaxes. He looks at you, and you flinch at the eye contact. “How could it have happened?” You shrink about an inch down into the covers.

He stands up, and turns to the bookshelf. You watch him carefully. He just stands there.

He turns back around eventually, and heaves a sigh. “You don’t have anywhere to stay, do you?” He doesn’t say it like a question, so you don’t think you really need to answer. “You can stay here.” He looks back at you, then, an expectant look on his face like he wants something from you. You keep looking right back at him. You don’t say anything. He leaves. You stare at the ceiling for a while. There’s something you’re avoiding.

You would like to sleep. You cannot sleep. Rocky comes back in with two plates of pancakes.  
“I actually hate pancakes.” You didn’t think before you said it, and you don’t remember deciding to say it, but you look at him and you can see by his face that you did say it.

It was mean.

“What do you like?”

The ceiling has interesting patterns on it. You hear Rocky eating and then you hear him leaving.

It is dark out again. It is too quiet now. You catch yourself thinking too much.

_...found you by smell probably, and now you’re cornered._

Stop, you tell yourself. Stop.

_...probably wouldn’t stop even if you asked. You bit your lip and kept silent._

It’s a long night.

The sun shines through the window, and you think you want to stand up. When you sit up this time, you don’t get dizzy. You forget what you were going to do, and just sit there, staring at your hands in front of you, not really thinking, just allowing time to pass so you don’t have to deal with anything while it’s doing so.

“Are you hungry?”

You turn your head and look at the books.

You are standing up in front of the bookshelf and from the aching in your knees you think you’ve been standing here a while. You don’t remember Rocky leaving.

You reach out and place your finger on the spine of a book. It’s green, a sort of dark green.

Some time later you leave the shelf and sit back down on the bed. Then you get up again, and focus extremely hard to make yourself comprehend the words on the spines of the books, and then you sit down on your bed with a comfortably heavy dictionary. When it’s open in your lap you can almost pretend it’s weighing you down. It helps, some.

You read the dictionary. Rocky comes in. He says something, and when you don’t answer, he puts a paw on the dictionary like he’s going to take it, and you panic. You don’t register tears until you can assign meaning to the words he’s saying;  
“Why are you crying?” You shake your head, gripping the dictionary like it’s a lifeline, trying, trying to find words that you can say to make him let it go. “You need to eat.”  
“I don’t--” You sob. “Give, let me...” None of your words are working and you can only think of ones you don’t need. Words have never failed you before, and now that they are, you can’t even control your breathing. “Rocky.”

He sighs, frustration evident, and you swallow. He doesn’t say anything else, just leaves, and you take so long to calm down that it’s the middle of the night when you first blink.

You can’t read the dictionary now, in the dark, but you don’t think you could focus on it anyway. You feel the pages, though, and the smoothness of the paper calms you down a little more, and before long, you’ve slipped back into nothingness, into losing time.

Morning comes. Rocky comes in. You ask where the bathroom is. He shows you, and you realise you must’ve found your way there before because you remember the wallpaper. You drink some water out of the sink because your throat is uncomfortably dry.

You walk out of the bathroom and find that you don’t remember which way is back to the room with the bookshelves, and then you get confused because there are bookshelves everywhere. You are sort of dimly surprised he has so many books, but you guess it makes sense, with how much he quotes things and rhymes. As you walk along, you stroke down each book’s spine. You like the way books feel.

You wander into a kitchen, where he is sitting at a round table with three chairs.  
“Enjoying that dictionary?” He says it dryly, like he doesn’t really expect you to answer, and you look down to see that the dictionary is in your hands. You sit down in one of the chairs and set the dictionary on the table.  
“Not quite. I cannot think.” You open your mouth to say more, but then get distracted trying to remember what it is you’ve already said. “It is... helpful. To have the words with me. It is...” You pick the dictionary up and look at it for a few seconds before you remember what it is you were going to do with it. You flip to the ‘D’ section. You think it starts with ‘D’ and sounds like certain. “Disconcerting. To not find them when I reach.” He pauses, fork halfway between his mouth and the plate, and you suddenly feel self-conscious. “Did I...?”

You look down at the dictionary, scared suddenly that you got the wrong word or said it wrong. You think you said it right. What word was it again? Drift, Disph-- Disconcerting. No, the meaning matches what you wanted.  
“You can’t think? That sounds.. I wonder why that is, heh.” He shrugs, and the familiar gesture makes you feel more comfortable than you have in... however many days.  
“I cannot sleep. Thinking is hard because I have to avoid--” You cut yourself off, and he leans forward unconsciously.  
“You have to acknowledge it eventually, or thinking will never get easier.” You breathe in sharply and stand up.  
“I should...” you trail off, and give up on the words, leaning on the chair for support, struggling to breathe because there is something crushing you, you cannot breathe or think or do anything. Rocky puts a hand on your shoulder, and you shudder, curling in on yourself again, trying to hide the vulnerable parts of yourself. You look up at him, distressed, suddenly fully aware of _everything_ , the headache from hitting your head earlier, the ache in your back from the uncomfortable positions, and the way you feel like you’ll just disappear without something to hold onto.

His blue eyes close, and then he pulls you in against him, patting your back and whispering meaningless comforting words in your ear, and you wrap your arms around him and hold, because you’re falling apart now, and you feel like if you don’t hold on to anything you won’t be the same when you put yourself back together.

You hold on to him for a while, long enough that it probably gets awkward, but he handles it with more grace than you would expect out of him (but you’re still learning about who he is, so you aren’t caught off guard enough that you let go).


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ack this one is ridiculously short but honestly its been too long for me to be picky about what i put here i just need to Do It

A few days pass. One morning you wake up with the sun and decide to make pancakes. You’ve been getting some words back, but talking is still hard. You’re dimly aware that it used to be easier.

You focus on the cool, smooth feeling of the wood floors under your paws as you tiptoe around looking for a cookbook. You find one on the second lowest shelf of the bookshelf near the kitchen. You aren’t sure if it’s lucky or inevitable that this one has a recipe for pancakes; knowing Rocky, you’d guess the latter.

You don’t remember starting up the stove or mixing the batter but here you are suddenly with your paw poised over the steaming griddle, trying to decide whether to attempt a face or just do it normally. You end up tracing out a triangular outline and filling it in with circles. It turns out perfect enough to be immensely satisfying when you flip it over, and the circles (all connected; you can only go so deep into a fractal with pancake batter, so after a few iterations they started to run into each other, leaving you with a solid pancake) are slightly differing shades of brown depending on their size. You can’t help but smile almost bemusedly. You never would have guessed you would end up here, in the home of someone you’ve known less than two months, grinning over an aesthetically pleasing pancake, of all things.

You shrug, and make another one for yourself and by that point you are enjoying yourself too much to bother making the rest of the pancakes perfect. The third and fourth and so on are all just circles. You run out of batter, and then turn off the stove. You make sure to turn off the stove. You are certain you turned the stove off. You checked three times.

You snoop around just a little bit in his pantry and assume that you actually did mix the batter and it didn’t just appear by magic because you recognise the layout and even remember exactly where you must have seen syrup earlier. You nudge his pancake onto another plate and then go to knock on the door to his bedroom. He opens it after a few minutes, takes one look at you, and bursts out laughing, and you realise you have flour in your fur. You hold out the plate with the pancake and say,  
“I... um. There’s more in the...” You can’t remember the word for that one room you made the pancakes in. “The, uh... The cooking... room.” He snickers, and your ears twitch in annoyance.  
“Wow! Thanks, Mordecai.” He studies the pancake, and you think you detect a hint of awe in his expression, but you aren’t sure. It might be wishful thinking. “This looks pretty.” Not wishful thinking.

You’re sitting at the table with him now, watching as he stirs syrup into a cup of coffee and wondering if it’s possible for life to be this way always. He looks up at you and you don’t look away, and for a few minutes, it feels like the answer to that question is simply Yes.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hell. I will say that I was really unsure about posting this chapter. Someone I knew found this fic and gave me shit for it ('*licks you like one of the cats in your fic*,' 'ive been having writers block can you give me any ideas-- wait no nevermind i dont want to write rape porn about cats,' '*SQUIRTS GERMEX ON MY HANDS* *RUBS THEM TOGETHER VIGOUROUSLY*') so my confidence is at an all time low. 
> 
> I'm having trouble remembering what I was trying to accomplish by writing this. I think it was something like, displaying the effects of societal suppression of healthy sexuality and emotional expression on the life of someone belonging to multiple minority groups, but, hell. guess its just cat porn or whatever. cus everyone knows we cant have meaningful thematic ideas in fanfiction.
> 
> and i guess i can forget about how this was originally a vent fic because "lol no sane person goes through that shit and then writes about it" [probably not an exact quote] yeah thanks so much for the anxiety attack pip or tj or whichever one of you shitheads said it :) 
> 
> all that said enjoy the chapter. please give me feedback. i need it.

You can tell he wants to have pancakes again for lunch, and because you know that the real purpose of freedom of choice isn’t to just reject society’s expectations but to make decisions regardless of whether or not they line up with said expectations, you go ahead and make some. He keeps you lucid while you mix the batter by quizzing you on words.  
“Precision?” You tilt your head as you tap an egg on the counter, and then, as you gently pull the two rough halves of shell away from each other to let the golden yolk and its surrounding fluid drop into the mixing bowl, the meaning comes to you.  
“When it’s right? Exact? It’s, similar to accuracy but also different.” You glance up from the recipe book (you keep having to check it) to see if you got it right, and he nods. You smile.

Then, as you measure out flour and try to keep from miscounting how much you’ve already put in, he asks you,  
“Remarkable?” You pause, losing track of the flour and forgetting the word in your ensuing distress. A small tremour runs through you, and he steps up to the other side of the peninsula. “You’ve put in three of those things so far.” His paws reach out halfway across the counter and then pause, allowing you to decide if you want to accept the offer of comfort, and you don’t initially intend to, but you still can’t remember the word, and you’d rather join paws than end up crying. You lean your elbows on the counter and reach out for him, and he understands, lacing his fingers with yours as you duck your head and squeeze your eyes shut. It seems too bright in the kitchen.  
“Could we...” You trail off, unsure how to use the words you have to say what you want. “Curtains,” you decide, because you think you know he’s insightful enough to understand what you mean. He makes an affirmative sound, and lets go of your paws to draw the curtains closed.

By the time he gets back over to you, you’ve stood up straight again, and noticed the syrup he got on your paws. You shake your head at him and say, without even really concentrating too much,  
“What sort of boredly capricious spirit gave you such a remarkable talent for messiness?” He grins in a way that lights up his entire face, and goes off on a rhyming tangent. You finish the pancake batter as well as you can with your annoyingly diminished mental capacity, and then realise you are completely exhausted. You lean heavily back onto the counter and attempt to fight off the dizziness that’s suddenly tearing its way through your brain. You hear Rocky say something but immediately forget what it was.

Then his paw is on your shoulder. You flinch and jerk back, overcompensating and bumping against the bowl of batter that was apparently left on the edge of the counter. It falls, and it seems to you that the fall lasts forever because you hyperfocus on it-- and then it’s already shattered suddenly and you have even less energy than you did before. Maybe you fall. Maybe he catches you.

You wake up in a bed. The same bed as usual, in the same room as usual. The curtains are drawn. You can see that it’s bright behind them. You stare at the ceiling, not attempting to think because honestly, it hurts to think. It hurts really bad.

Rocky comes in at some point. He asks you something and you just look at him because your comprehension skills are at an all time low. His voice is hushed and soothing, somehow exactly in the middle of the very small range of sounds you can handle right now. Among those, the sound you make when he starts to leave has no place, and you cannot help reaching out to him, cannot help the way your breathing quickens in illogical panic, you cannot help the way your eyes look when you try to get him to stay without words-- tragic-emphatic-beautiful is how he describes it to you later in his own personal moment of vulnerability. He places his paw in yours, watching you with an almost apprehensive expression, and you tug on his arm to try and pull him closer. He lets you.

You clear your throat and cling to him.  
“Talk?” You want to hear him talk more. His voice lets you slip under in a way that isn’t scary like when you’re scruffed or painful like when you get dizzy. He wraps an arm around you halfway, sort of awkwardly because of positioning, and asks if you want him to lay down. To answer, you just pull yourself closer to him. Maybe you whimper. Maybe he hums at you.

You snuggle against him, feeling safe and letting his voice wash over you. He has a strong presence, but the way he carries himself is usually too whimsical to be overwhelming. You’re overwhelmed now, but not by him. He is helping you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh guess what else i orphaned a bunch of my works because of that bullshit so dudes from that hamilton chat if you ever read this congratulations youre shitty people. 
> 
> again please please please tell me what you think if you are still reading this


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took forever.   
> Sorry.
> 
> After I wrote the first paragraph, the key for the second letter of the English letter-sequence stopped working. So I had to type the rest of the chapter without that letter. Hooray for me. Hopefully I'll have that fixed *secondletter*efore it's time to write and post the next chapter.

The first time you know the date after that is June 11th, 1924. Thank god it’s still the same year. You get the impression you’ve missed a lot, when you and Rocky step back into the Little Daisy together and Ivy Pepper waves and immediately begins talking. You blink and unconsciously take a small step back. It’s a lot to deal with suddenly.

 

Rocky grins at you and reaches out to push your glasses up, and perhaps it’s that you’ve finally returned to the cafe after so long that makes you start reminiscing (oh, that’s a good word, you like that one); whatever the case, you’re suddenly caught up in thinking of the first time you came here, when anything close to what Rocky just did would have set you on the defensive. It’s sort of nice that you have someone to trust now.

“Calm down, Specs.” Along with the words are all sort of things he doesn’t say, like he won’t make you do this, and it’s okay if you aren’t ready. You don’t know if you’re ready.

 

It’s a few minutes later, once you’ve gone in and assessed the state of the weapons closet, that you realise he gave you a nickname, and you pause in the middle of wiping off a shelf. Although Rocky isn’t in here with you, you’re certain he’s somewhere near; he told you he would stay close if you needed it, and you didn’t say anything, just looked at him gratefully. You aren’t very good at asking for help when you need it, which is likely due to the fact that up until now, people have always held it against you, used it to make you feel small. Rocky doesn’t do that.

 

So you suppose you can allow the nickname, if it appeases him. You don’t acknowledge to yourself the real reason you don’t mind it, which is that he never reduces you to anything other than what you are, only expects you to do what you want, and trusts that you know yourself well enough to refrain from taking on anything you can’t handle. And it makes you feel wanted for who you are.

 

The weapons room, though. How on earth did it return to such a state in the... hmm, 11 plus (31 minus 22) makes 20 days. 20 days is practically nothing, honestly. 

 

You’ve had people tell you multiple times that the way you do math leaves a lot to guesswork, and you always got points off for neglecting to show your work in elementary math. It’s superfluous, though; any idiot could deduce (another good word!) that the 31 is for the total days in May, and the 22 is for the date (which Rocky told you) that the....... event occurred, and 11 is for today’s date, in June. 20 days. A lot of time, although not nearly long enough to excuse the alarming mess in the weapons room. You’ll have to complain.

 

And you do, as soon as you’ve finished tidying up again:

“I was gone for twenty days and already the guns were deep enough in dust for twenty  _ years _ to have passed.” You cross your arms as you say it, and Mitzi May giggles girlishly, like she’s purposefully trying to goad you into going off.

“A little dust never hurt anyone.”

“Neither will these guns, if we don’t take proper care to keep them in good condition--”

“We?” She puts a paw to her chest as though scandalised, widening her eyes to imitate an expression of surprise. You aren’t fooled.

“Yes, we, as in you need to start doing so. Immediately.”

She chuckles again, and rolls her eyes, leaning onto her desk. Even though you ignore the way it makes you tense up, she notices, and you can tell she’s drawing conclusions. 

“I’ll get right on that,” she says, leveling a somewhat amused look at you, and wow, you really don’t like her. She’s quite the opposite of Rocky, always assuming meanings that you don’t intend, and taking every opportunity to make you feel silly. You’ve met her kind in the past, many times, and you know how to deal with them. It’s still annoying to have to. Ornery alphas are your least favourite people in the entire world.

 

Later, when you’re complaining to Rocky, it occurs to you that Mitzi May is the only person in this entire enterprise who acts that way towards you. All these people and the only one that does so also happens to have all the authority (until Atlas returns, that is). It figures. 

 

At least you have Rocky, and he listens to you. 

“Well, Miss May sure isn’t an ideal person to work for for an omega, except you have to understand, she and Atlas are much more... Well, the alternatives are worse.”

You’ve personally experienced exactly how much worse they are, so you can’t deny that statement. 

“Still, it is quite frustrating.”

Rocky nods, and moves to put a paw on your shoulder in comfort. He gives you enough time to say no, so you deflect him just since you can. He grins at you like he understands. It’s nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Painfully short chapter, yeah. Please comment if you enjoyed. I'm having sort of a hard time writing-wise, so any feed_ack is appreciated.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this ones got an epigraph cus epigraphs are hella cool.
> 
> also, just a warning, this chapter is somewhat surreal. youll want to crossreference dates from other chapters if you have a vested interest in understanding the plot.
> 
> also its time for me to add more character tags to this story! woo this is exciting :D
> 
> also warning for character death. :/ i had this planned from the start, for the record. (it gets better from here, i promise. It gets better. This is the darkest part that I currently have planned, except for _maybe_ the chapter after this. There is hope.
> 
> also i say "also" a lot in informal settings...
> 
> oh also theres,, antisemitism in a flashback. i think that about covers it, but if i miss anything feel free to let me know!

_ Something's wrong when you regret things that haven't happened yet. _

\-- The Submarines, "1940"

* * *

 

 

the rain runs down your neck and you shiver. clouds are apparent in the air, and life seems sort of lifeless, detached, falling, floating (gunshots)

 

you are floating

 

(gun-shot)

 

silt stings your throat and maybe the sun beats down but

 

do you feel? feeling is for chumps. your nose tickles. noises exist.

 

the fingers move across the page, writing numbers in a ledger, but are they your fingers? they cant be.

 

what is a mind, you ask yourself, as your father crosses the living room. what is a person, exactly.

 

the sun beats down and maybe as you start coming back to yourself you realise… you realise you are in the water and… no, the ledger was a while ago, your father was a while ago.

 

rocky

 

the water is all around you and you might be moving but it’s a little too much like existing to focus on whats happening

 

sun hot and bright

 

eyes closed

 

eyes exist? apparently they do. eyes. they are closed. red is on the other side of them. burning red. rocky.

 

Burning red like the room you wake up in, later--  _ what  _ _ is _ _ a room, anyhow-- _

 

Smells of flowers. Someone touching you (Rocky?) not Rocky. Words floating in the air. what is air. what are words.

 

Eyes. They exist. You open them.

 

The room is red. The room smells of flowers and smoke. The room is noisy. The room is dry.

 

A face above yours. You are on your back. Your eyes squint and the face is somewhat more seeable.

 

what year is it

 

you dont say it out loud

 

(Rocky?)

 

You say that out loud and it feels weird to move your mouth. The face above you responds in a way you can’t parse and then backs up and you realise it is connected to the rest of a person. The next thing you say is “glasses.” Nobody gives them to you. They are probably gone.

 

_ Gone, gone. 2 AM, if you had to guess, dark outside and cold in the bed next to you. You sit up and flick on a lamp to be sure. Being able to see the bookshelves on every wall of the room calms you down enough that you don’t panic when you see, Rocky really isn’t next to you. You feel his spot and it is cold.  _

 

_ You feel your mind trying to close off and fight it, fight it hard, calling up memories of the past few days and buying books, how hot it’s been recently. What’s the date? August. What day? You aren’t sure, or can’t remember-- strange. 1926. _

 

_ You find yourself by the front door, dressed, with your paw on the knob, and hesitate. You check the time. It’s 3:18. You look down at yourself to make sure your clothes are well-chosen. They seem to match. You turn on the light in the front room and check the time. It’s 3:19. You realise you don’t remember getting dressed, and glance down to confirm that your clothing matches. Nothing seems amiss. You stare out the window. The clock chimes 4 AM, and you flinch. Rocky. You hurry out the front door, checking one last time that you aren’t wearing anything inside out, and sprint to the Little Daisy. _

 

This is not the Little Daisy. This is a hotel room. You don’t think chickens are allowed in hotels, but you hear a chicken.

 

You don’t recognise the clothes you are wearing (when did you sit up) but the alpha you smell behind you is still touching you and it doesn’t feel okay. You drive your elbow back into her stomach. She cackles, and says something. You only catch what seems to be her name: Sabine. Something like Sabine.

 

_ You see something then, that makes something in you twist up and set itself alight in rage. The two big ones that you followed here, one a beta, one an alpha, are holding a body between them, grey-furred and unmistakable. You can’t accept this. You aim and fire from your perch on the rooftop, _

 

“...And we saw you floating right in the river there, just belly-up and looking like death, and decided-- well, Sera decided, I agreed-- to go on right over and scoop you out!”

 

The other alpha in the room, a big guy, but not as big as Viktor, says this. You don’t reply, just squint at him. It’s hard to understand what exactly he is saying.

 

“Come on then, Nic, give the little one his specs back.”

 

_ Specs. Rocky grinning at you-- stop. A different memory.  _

 

_ “Don’t know what he ec-specs me to do about it, but really, does he need to be in those classes? I’d worry more about his nerves, if I was him, than some well-meanin’ classmates tryin’ to make sure he hasn’t bitten off more’n he can chew.” _

 

_ You duck back around the door and flee down the hallway. You weren’t supposed to hear that. You feel tears prickle at the corners of your eyes and try to breathe slowly, calm yourself down. You shouldn’t have expected anything better from an adult with power over you. None of them understand, and none of them want to. _

 

_ You fling the main door open and trip down the front steps, run off across the street and into the empty lot where people go to skip class. And straight into Margaret Thatcher, who grabs you around the waist, God, how you hate her-- _

 

_ You kick and she takes your glasses and tosses you to the ground. You scramble back up and look her in the eye, cursing your whiskers for their anxious twitching. _

 

_ “Who’s that? Oh, the Jew.” _

 

_ You lift the strap of your messenger bag over your head so you can fight if you need to, and let it fall to the ground. There are library books in there… Your face is more important than a library book. _

 

_ “Do Jews have God?” _

 

_ “Good one, Frank. ‘Do Jews have God,’ honestly.” _

 

_ You can feel the glare on your face deepen, and even though you know it’s just to get to you, you want to tear all of them to pieces in that moment. _

 

_ “Do you believe in God, Mordecrybaby?” _

 

_ “You believe in him even though he doesn’t believe in you, isn’t that right Mary-Anne? So, since I put effort into being a decent person, what reason have I to renounce him when you, a self-proclaimed believer, do so every day with your actions, if not your words?” _

 

_ That proclamation is met with a chilly silence, but soon they regain their bearings, just like always. If they were smart, maybe your insults would have kept them down a little bit longer. As it happens, anything clever you say to them is a wasted effort. _

 

The other alpha shifts his weight to his other leg and crosses his arms. You think you can see which hand your glasses are in, if you squint.

 

“‘S cute, how he squints, though.”

 

_ “What a dear, lookit him squintin’--” _

 

_ You throw a punch, but she jerks back and you lose your balance and fall flat on your face. Laughter rings out across the lot. You don’t want to look up or stand up, but you do anyway because you can’t let them do this to you-- _

 

_ “He’s got some real complicated lookin’ books in here, Maisie.” _

 

_ “What? Lemme see.” _

 

_ You lunge for your bookbag, but-- _

 

You shake your head to clear your thoughts and then glare at the other alpha, the one Sabine called Nic. You can’t see the expression on his face, but from his throaty laugh, it’s probably amused and superior, you’d guess. You jump at him without thinking, and, just like what happened back in ‘11-- or was it 1910? 1912? you aren’t sure-- he gains the upper hand almost too easily. But you expect that, and you’ve learned to deal with not always winning fights on your first strike. You aim a punch at his crotch to make him start defending his body instead of your glasses, and then a few seconds of scuffle later you’re able to grab them out of his hand and jump away (he shoved you away, it was almost too easy).

 

You put them on and then continue to stare him down, and you can tell any future altercations won’t be nearly so simple just by the look on his face, put out, typical--

 

The female one laughs delightedly.

 

Fuck. Rocky is dead, you’re gallivanting in a room with two unknowns, you’re confused, definitely not at your best mentally, you really just need… You need some pancakes. Not this, whatever this is. You don’t need this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i live for feedback, please comment if you liked this!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter makes no sense unless you check dates from previous chapters. in fact, please check the dates from previous chapters. point out discrepancies. read between the lines.

_Thursday June 3 1926_

 

_I took part in a curious sort of affair today. Its peculiarity arose when, upon entering a specified edifice, I encountered a child perched atop a crossbeam in the roof. She took no notice of me and I was able to carry out my duties without incident. It was a strange experience, however. She reminded me of you, to be entirely honest, despite the fact that she is much younger than you would be now._

 

_The reason I am mentioning it is because it keeps crossing my mind. I hope that, now I’ve given it a home on paper, it will cease to afflict me._

 

_Other than this minor irregularity, today went well._

 

_I have something to tell you. I know I repeated rather insistently when we were teenagers that I would never marry, and I still have no plans to do so, but that statement was based in the idea that I would never find a romantic interest. My belief that I would never find a romantic interest was in turn based in my (rather logical) belief that I would never meet anyone, alpha or otherwise, who respected me as a fellow person besides you, to whom I am related._

 

_I feel ready to put this in writing. Rocky and I have been romantically involved since March 28th of 1925. I know it’s silly to wait so long to write it, especially seeing as I have no intention of ever mailing these._

 

_I miss you, Rose. I hope you are doing well, and I’m sorry about leaving. It couldn’t be helped._

 

_Until we meet again._

 

_Saturday June 5 1926_

 

_Since the 3rd I have been plagued by thoughts of the young girl on the rafter. I’ve come to a tentative conclusion as to the reason, and have not yet managed to accept it. Rocky is beginning to notice. We made pancakes today. It would have been less messy without him, but he wanted to help, and I must admit, I enjoyed myself._

 

_This notebook was in a different place than I remember leaving it. I could have moved it and forgotten, I suppose; that has been happening more and more often since mid-1924 and is quite worrisome. I try not to dwell on it, considering the abysmal support available for those with similar conditions of the mind. I doubt anything can be done._

 

_The child, though-- I wonder if her family knew she was there. I wonder if she has a family._

 

_She kicked her legs in the air from her perch atop the beam, and seemed to be drawing pictures in the dust on the sides of it._

 

_I wonder if the same irregularity which greatly lessens the severity of my heats would prevent me from having children. Not that I’m complaining._

 

_Monday June 7 1926_

 

_Maybe I am complaining._

 

_Friday June 11 1926_

 

_Why am I torn up about this? Children are a nuisance. We don’t have the resources to care for them. It’s not a defect if it improves my quality of life._

 

_It isn’t a defect. It improves my quality of life and has likely saved it multiple times. I am not broken._

 

_I’ve never wanted a child before. Why is this starting now? Some speculations:_

 

  * _I’m in a steady relationship, so instincts are telling my body that reproduction is likely to work out well_


  * _Repression (Thank you, Sigmund Freud. Because of your efforts, I can use “repression” as a valid explanation for anything.)_


  * _A conspiracy._


  * _Witchcraft is real, and the child on the beams used it on me_


  * _People want what we can’t have_


  * _I’m romanticizing parenthood for some reason_



 

 

_Most of these are plausible, unless you disagree with Freud, in which case only half are plausible. I wish I could ask you about this for real. You’re a good listener, Rose, when it’s my problems you’re hearing about and not instructions to stay out of my things._

 

_Saturday June 12 1926_

 

_Rocky confronted me today. Although I suppose it wasn’t a confrontation so much as him telling me I can talk to him if I so choose, and that he hopes it works out either way._

 

_I didn’t tell him, but I think he knows and won’t say because he wants to respect my privacy. Unfortunately, he knows me well, almost as well as you, and he’s learned most of my tells. I should clarify that it’s only unfortunate in this situation, especially considering we took a walk around Forest Park today and several children asked me if I was an architect._

 

_I don’t understand children. One of them asked me if I built the building for the art museum. When I told him I hadn’t, he asked Rocky if it was him. Rocky started reciting poetry, which I suspect intimidated the child._

 

_It was a truly adorable experience._

 

_Forest Park is nice. If I ever see you again, and you visit, I’ll take you there._

 

_Sunday June 13 1926_

 

_This morning I woke up before the sun from nightmares. It’s been awhile since this happened last. It used to happen more frequently._

 

_Of course Rocky woke up too. I may have sobbed into his shoulder for the several hours that were left before dawn._

 

_When we got up, I told him over coffee about my sudden wish for children. He handled it well. I had allowed my worry to build up in my head and turn it into a much bigger problem than it actually was._

 

_He suggested visiting an orphanage. Now, I’m not sure if the significance of this is immediately clear, so I’ll explain:_

 

_Many alphas would ask if I wanted to try to have children myself. Others wouldn’t even ask, but just assume. Rocky, being aware that there are many ways for a person to raise a child without conceiving, suggested one of those options._

 

_I love him. It’s not just the way he looks out for me without diminishing my autonomy. It’s who he is. He tries very hard to be someone likeable; he won’t settle for being a good person. He wants to be a good person who people like._

 

_His definition of a good person matches up reasonably closely with mine._

 

_I’ve thought this before, and this won’t be the last time I write it, but it’s an incredible feeling, to know someone cares about you._

 

_As it happens, however, I think I might want to try. I need to consider every possibility before I tell Rocky, though._

 

_Including the possibility that it won’t ever work._

 

_Tuesday June 15 1926_

 

_I had a dream involving children. They are already fading from my mind, so I will write them down to immortalise them, even though they aren’t real._

 

_The eldest was a beta male, who we named Patrick. He wore overalls everywhere and drew airplanes on everything he could lay his paws on. His favourite color was green. I don’t remember his appearance._

 

_The youngest was an omega female, named Esther after our sister Esther. She refused to wear dresses and loved carrots._

 

_And now I shall turn to a new page and never look at this one again._

 

_Tuesday June 15 1026, continued_

 

_I didn’t tell Rocky about the dream, but he noticed me looking wistful._

 

_Sunday June 20 1926_

 

_I won’t be able to write for a while; the pace of things at work is increasing at the moment, and I’ll likely be too exhausted by evening every day to say anything._

 

_My sincere apologies._

 

_Thursday July 8 1926_

 

_It’s been awhile since I last wrote. I’m exhausted, which I predicted well in advance._

 

_Tuesday July 27 1926_

 

_I should be able to write again at a reasonably steady pace._

 

_Rocky and I have spoken more with each other and agreed that a child would be impractical at the moment, considering our only means of employment is illegal. You’d think that would be the first step, but Rocky has a habit of doing things backwards, and I have a habit of humouring him._

 

_Friday July 30 1926_

 

 _Not very much has been happening lately. I finished reading_ The Age of Innocence _today. Edith Wharton is quite intelligent; I admire her skill in subtle irony. Next, I may reread the dictionary; it’s been awhile since I last did so._

 

_Tuesday August 3 1926_

 

_I have read every book in our house. This is a problem. I either need to slow down or we need more books. I think it’s the second option. We need more books._

 

_You used to laugh at me for checking more than ten books out of the library at a time. I’ve always been a quick reader, though; it was necessary._

 

_Tomorrow I think I’ll tell Rocky about this predicament._

 

_Wednesday August 4 1926_

 

_We are going to purchase books this coming Saturday. I don’t want to wait, but I can be a patient person, so I will make do._

 

_I should write to you for real. I think I will do so. It’ll be strange to keep writing in this after I’ve already written you a letter, so I think I’ll stop once I get a reply. I’m running out of pages soon anyway. It’ll be good to talk to you again._

 

_Wednesday August 11 1926_

 

_Rocky and I have spent the evenings buying books for the past few days. He is almost more fun inside a bookstore than in a pottery shop._

 

***

 

Friday, September 3, 1926

Mordecai!

 

Wow, it has been a long time. We all assumed you were dead-- but don’t worry, I didn’t tell mother any of the specifics. She doesn’t know about this Rocky character.

 

I want to hear more about him. Do you let him call you cute? Tell me what he looks like so I can draw him. It’ll be a masterpiece, I promise.

 

I can’t believe you joined a gang. I’m so disappointed in you. If anything, I’d’ve thought you’d be the one running the gang.

 

I’m well, by the way-- I’ve gotten married. She’s another beta. I got lucky because she’s Jewish too.

 

Mother says to ask if you’ve been recognising Shabbat. I said I doubt it, but she says I still have to ask.

 

My wife says she didn’t know I even had a brother. The two of you should meet, because she likes math too. Geometry and such.

 

See you soon?

Rose

 

***

 

September 8th ‘26

I can’t find Mordecai. I’m trying. We’re worried. Just thought I should tell you.

Rocky Rickaby

 

***

 

Monday, September 13, 1926

Please let me know if the situation changes.

 

Rose

 

***

 

October 12th ‘26

We found him but those around him say he doesn’t want contact with us. I don’t buy it. He wouldn’t leave without telling me to my face. I’m going to keep trying.

Rocky Rickaby

 

***

 

Sunday, October 17, 1926

I’m not sure if I agree that he’d tell you if he decided to leave. He didn’t tell us he was going anywhere when he left New York. My mother was worried sick for weeks.

 

Rose

 

***

 

Wednesday, November 24, 1926

Has anything changed? Did he talk to you?

 

Rose

 

***

 

Tuesday, December 7, 1926

Are there any new developments?

  
Rose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment if you enjoyed!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I messed with the POV here and all in all, I think this chapter turned out far better than I was hoping for when I started it. Which is exciting!
> 
> I've never actually seen second person used this way. I like it though; it's like, Second Person Detached? Second Person Dissociated? Whatever. The whole deal is it's not focused completely on the character represented by the "you."
> 
> enjoy :)

Serafine Savoy is usually-- that is, often-- prepared. Which is to say, she's prepared to react at all times. She doesn't prepare, however. She just _is._  
  
And so one evening when the alpha named Rocky shows up at her door, a mere half hour before you are due to arrive, she puts aside her questions as to how he got here, opens the door, lets him in, and sends Nicodem to run interference.  
  
"So you're probably here about Mr. Heller, yeah?" she prompts him, very aware that whoever speaks first shapes the conversation and gains the upper paw. "He told us this'd maybe happen." A small, what-can-ya-do sort of smile appears on her face as she lies through her teeth.  
  
The other one, the one named Rocky, is visibly thrown off balance. Serafine is certain that he intended to come in guns blazing. He is now hesitating. This may not be the end of everything, then. If Nic can come up with a proper-enough sounding excuse for someone as sharp-witted as you, that is.  
  
Serafine is good at doubt. Ridiculously, frustratingly so. She isn't yet sure if the best way to deal with this nuisance is to make him doubt you or to make him doubt himself, and her claws itch to just get rid of him, but she knows she has to do this right.  
  
"Don’t say anything if you’d rather, it's just fine. Must be hard for you, to be left after so long. But really, Mr...."  
  
"Rickaby."  
  
"Mr. Rickaby," Serafine continues fluidly, "do you really got to follow him once he's made it clear that--"  
  
"I'm sorry, I don't have a single clue what you mean by that."  
  
Serafine cocks her head just so to the side, putting on an expression of mildly horrified concern.  
  
"You telling me he didn't end it to your face?"  
  
Rocky frowns, and, to his credit, only considers that a moment before going back to his customary blinding grin.  
  
"You seem to know a lot about this situation.”

 

Serafine nods instinctively, and Rocky’s grin becomes predatory.

“Why, if he’s decided I’m devilspawn, did he tell me just a few weeks ago that he was having a weird longing to raise kids? Why did he trust me?"  
  
Serafjne can tell, then, that Rocky is trying to catch her in a lie, to get her to make some excuse that he can prove wrong. So she takes the truth and presents it in a way that favours her story.  
  
"He never mentioned _that_. He doesn't discuss you if he can avoid it. But since you just threw that trust all away by telling me that, well..."  
  
She sees the grin falter, and trails off, now certain that she's correctly interpreted your silence on the matter. Rocky mutters an expletive under his breath.  
  
"Are we done here?"  
  
Rocky shakes his head.  
  
"I want to see him."  
  
Serafine purses her lips.  
  
"You think you can just demand this. He owes you nothing. It is… eh, presumptuous to think otherwise."  
  
A perplexed expression finds its way onto Rocky's face, and Serafine presses harder.  
  
"He has chosen this. I'm not gonna question his reasons. Rest assured that he has them."  
  
"This isn't--"  
  
"Go, Mr. Rickaby. You just don’t know him like you thought."  
  
"No,"  
  
There's a look of confused pain on his face, and one of determined satisfaction on hers. Serafine knows how good of a liar she is. She has to be.  
  
"Funny, you’re saying that. But he’s already said it, and he’s got the right to, don’t he? Leave, Mr. Rickaby. Let him be."  
  
Rocky takes a step back but doesn't leave, an expression of extremely pronounced confusion on his face. Serafine refines her technique.  
  
"Mr. Rickaby. You and I both know something awful has happened to that man. It is written all over his face when someone draws near him. He is skittish and distant."

“Yes, but--”

“But never with you, of course?”

Rocky falters, and Serafine’s features pull into something sympathetic.

“Mr. Rickaby. Please.” Her voice is soft, pleading. “He’s getting better, really, since he came here. I don’t want to see all that gone, and I don’t know what could happen, if you’re here… I must admit, I’ve taken a liking to the man. Nic and I, we’ll keep good care of him.”

“But--”

“You were most important for a long time. Just try to be happy with that, yeah?”

Rocky leaves.

 

Downstairs in the lobby, you see him out of the corner of your eye as he’s leaving. But you don’t turn to look. You have been _just imagining things_ one too many times to risk hope again.

He notices you and calls out,

“Specs,”

and you flinch. You don’t turn. You force yourself to listen more closely to Nicodem, because if you hope too hard, you’ll hit rock bottom even harder when that hope dies. Rocky is dead, _gone,_ you remind yourself.

Rocky leaves.

  
(That flinch was it, for him. A confirmation. He hasn’t quite accepted it yet; rather, he has determined that eventually he will, and that will be that.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! As always, feedback is very appreciated! 
> 
> Also, this story will _probably_ have a happy ending. I don't think I'm going to take it all the way into the Depression, so things should end on a high note. In case anyone was wondering.
> 
> I'll have been writing this story for a year on the 22nd. Exciting! This is my longest running story so far, I believe.


End file.
